


The Smile of Saint-Laurent

by magistralucis (Solitary_Shadow)



Series: Studies in Verisimilitude (Études + Translations) [2]
Category: Daft Punk
Genre: Dom!Thomas, Fluff, Fluff and Smut, Human!Daft Punk, Korean Language -> English Language, Light Bondage, M/M, NSFW, Oneshot, Slash, Smut, Translation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-30
Updated: 2015-09-30
Packaged: 2018-04-23 06:00:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4865675
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/magistralucis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas goes on a date with his lover, except that the latter doesn't know it.<br/>A reflection on the meaning of fashion, love, and transience.</p><p>[Thomas/Guy, extremely NSFW, Thomas POV. Mostly affectionate flattery and musing.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Smile of Saint-Laurent

**Author's Note:**

  * A translation of [Études / 에튀드](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4155843) by [magistralucis (Solitary_Shadow)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solitary_Shadow/pseuds/magistralucis). 



> **Disclaimer: I do not know any of the members of Daft Punk, this is strictly a work of fiction and I do not profit from nor claim to represent true aspects of their lives in this story.**
> 
> Yes, I do mean Yves Saint-Laurent.
> 
> I’ve been working on and off on this for over a year because I am bad at writing in my native language. Because of all of this, it’ll probably read differently in tone to my English-only fics - kind of clumsy at points, especially with Thomas’s character. Really serious one moment and kind of yandere the next, that kind of thing. It’s me. I’m the derpington
> 
> Why exactly _do_ we see young!DP wearing the same clothes over and over?  
>  Bias over the quantity/circumstance of each released photo aside, I’ve been reflecting on this for a long time, and that’s why I wrote this fic. Guy goes shopping, while Thomas follows him secretly from behind; I wanted to explore a frenzy of desirous, relentless obsession from the latter’s perspective without ever sacrificing the finer nuances of love.
> 
> If you like your dominant!Thomas then you’re in luck. Criticism/reviews are welcome.  
> Just don’t say that I d-didn’t warn you, or anything! 
> 
> This was originally meant to be a chapter in _Études_ \- my Korean DP fic collection - but I realized that I ought to indicate that this was a translation. I could do that just as easily with a few sentences' worth of notes, I suppose, but as I am beginning to doubt that I will ever translate the first two pieces in that collection (due to lack of quality), I've decided to make any non-Korean language translations a separate work of its own that _links_ to _Études_. There is a translation-indicator feature in AO3, after all - better make use of it.

**The Smile of Saint-Laurent - A Daft Punk Fanfiction**

\---------------

Let’s start from here. It’s not the beginning, but it doesn’t have to be.  
Right now, I’m on a date with my boyfriend.

 _The world is complicated nowadays_. You might think that sounds weird, me saying such a thing at this age, but it can’t be helped; I said it because I’m fairly sure that this is true. A complex world gives birth to multiple complicated worldviews - _necessarily_ \- and to speak only partially of the latter, there are now many ways to love someone. Broadly speaking, it is considered unfashionable at best to edge around various degrees of intimacy with words like ‘bases’, or to demand that people of certain sexual preferences either meet in secret elsewhere or give up entirely on their love. At worst, it’s a criminal act, and I should think so too. After certain matters of social justice were settled, though, came the blow towards far ordinary pleasures; in a world where everyone tries to assert an individual philosophy every time they fall in love, something like sitting in a cafe together, wearing worn leather jackets and sunglasses, lazily sipping coffee and gazing at the street outside has become a standard.

In other words, that’s such a _cliché_ thing to do now. It’s so simple that it doesn’t seem like you’ve put any kind of effort into the date.

But by saying all of this, I sure hope I’m not coming across as a social Luddite. I’m not saying that progress is _bad_ , and neither is my lover. We’re hardly _conservative_ in those matters. If it helps for you to think that I’m being pretentious - then so be it! I doubt that that’s too far from the truth, myself. After all, I’m only human, and I’m nostalgic for what were really very mundane elements of the past. So much that I romanticize them far more than they warrant it. That is a fault of mine, I’ll be honest about that.

Still, I’d like to vouch for the kind of date I’ve described just a few seconds ago. Sure it isn’t the most romantic kind, and it’s hardly original, but even now I think that it’s the effective sort. Just as there are objective truths in this universe, no matter how distant or irrelevant they seem to be (such as the fact that 0.9999… must always equal 1 without fail), there are certain expectations in society that time will not change easily. Regardless of where it takes place, or how old you might be, a date is a kind of ritual dedicated to getting to know someone. And I guarantee you: this will never change. So the kind of dates that involve comfortable silence in late-afternoon cafes or mutual shopping trips will never die out, regardless of how ordinary they are. So normal, they are, as to blend neatly into one’s daily routine - when was the last time you thought grocery shopping with your partner was a date? - and because of that, they are exceptionally hard to appreciate, though they are central to a well-adjusted relationship.

…

Even the pros don’t quite get how to appreciate the simpler things sometimes.  
My boyfriend doesn’t even _know_ that we’re on a date, you see.

…

Paris, France.  
Temperature: 18 degrees Celsius.  
Weather: clouded through the day, rain in the evening. The sun’s shining at the moment, though.  
Location: a small department store in Montmartre. There’s a large clothing store on the third floor that we especially like. Whenever we have time, we like to relax with a cup of tea at the nearby cafe before coming here to see what’s available.

So really, it is the ideal dating spot for the two of us.  
Although he thinks that I’m waiting at home right now.

“Will that be all? Are you by yourself?”

“That’s all, and yes…”

Heh. Of course you aren’t _by yourself_ , darling, I’m just around the corner. You can’t see me, is all.

He likes clothes. He didn’t always - I can’t really pinpoint when he began to shop around for them, nor when he began to spend considerable amounts of time in front of the mirror. Do I mind, though? Of course not. Over time he’s developed the better fashion sense. I can barely do justice to how beautiful he looks when in the presence of new or flattering clothes, so who am _I_ to deny him what he wants? And when he puts on those _clothes, mon Dieu_ , and when he gives me that perfect _smile_ …

… Ah. It’s bliss just thinking about it!  
Is there even one person on earth who wouldn’t be charmed by Guy’s smile?

…

Wait a minute. (Sorry about this.) Darling, aren’t you taking a little too long to get in there, it’s just a changing room-  
Huh? Who’s that? Do you… do you know him?

… Oh no. Okay. He just thought you were someone else. That’s fine, mistakes happen.  
But whoever you are, Monsieur, I would _really_ appreciate it if you could get away from my boyfriend now.

All right. That’s much better.

Let us return to the story. I _would_ like it if I could go in after him, of course. Give him a nice surprise. But all that’s only in the realm of possibility, and ought to stay that way. Personal space ought to be respected no matter what and I don’t particularly enjoy the idea of him finding out that I followed him here; best to let him do his thing and go on his way, without the two of us meeting. Then again, I also wouldn’t want to be seen as suspicious, just hovering around the place - so I quickly scour the nearby clothes racks, returning in less than three minutes with a single blue shirt and a dark leather jacket. I’m not sure if it’s real leather, but mine’s quite worn around the edges; no harm in trying out another.

“Will that be all?”

“Ah, yes…”

I respond in a lower tone of voice out of the fear that Guy will hear, but all it really does is to make me feel weird about myself. Not that I think either he or the sales assistant noticed. All she does is to glance at the clothes draped over my arm before she nods and lets me in without further comment.

 _Will that be all_ \- a question all too familiar to me, but awkward to respond to in any direction. Something about never being satisfied, but not wanting to upset the other person by saying so.

I can’t ever get used to being asked that.

—–

This will probably sound weird too, coming from me. But here goes.

I _really_ like the changing rooms in this place. They’ve set up six cubicles along a well-cleaned, roomy corridor; every cubicle has a large mirror and a bench in it, and while they don’t have doors, they have large red-velvet curtains that reach all the way to the ground and do a good job of covering them up. It’s quiet, too. Maybe I’ve been lucky before, I don’t know, but I’ve never felt this place to be a busy one.  
It’s not all that different today. In fact, it’s so devoid of people that I can see that only one cubicle is in use. (Third from the main entrance.) So now I know where my boyfriend is _and_ I don’t need to spend too much effort in trying to be near him. It all works out for me.

Well, I ought to hide myself. I move towards the cubicle to his right. The distance between him and myself narrows down to a couple of feet, with only a slim wall in between.

I can hear him from here. The rustle of his clothing, mostly, with a little of his breathing. It’s quiet but rapid. He might be making a difficult decision in there, for all I know. Like I said, I’m really curious about what’s going on next door, but at the same time I don’t really want to be hasty. I’ll see what he’s made of his selection in a few hours. In the meanwhile I ought to explain better why on earth I would want to follow him here, and so close, without ever wanting to reveal myself.

It’s not all too complicated, the basic reason - I could have gone with him, and should have. My timing was just poor.

It was the first free weekend for me in ages. I overslept, and couldn’t quite get it together even after I woke up; when he asked whether I wanted to come along, all I could tell him at the time was that maybe I’d go next time. I also happen to have a uselessly overactive imagination and was afraid that someone would, well, make a move on him or something, you know?  
That’s my excuse for following him. I hope it’s an understandable one. If I ended it there, though, it’d come across as _me being unreasonably suspicious_ was the only thing that brought me here; if you think that way, then I have very little I could say to counter that. It’s not a falsehood. Still, I would like to defend myself. During this not-quite-date, I wasn’t so much thinking about my hypothetical rivals for Guy’s affections as I was thinking about something else unrelated.

I really _did_ come here for the sake of his clothes.

I’m not about to raid his wardrobe, no; we do share clothes sometimes, because we’re similar in certain sizes, but that extends only to simple shirts and older clothes that we keep for nostalgia’s sake. There’s just something about the _way_ Guy wears clothes that I - purely and simply - _worship_ , and I feel it to be a duty of mine to accompany him when he’s trying out new ones. I shouldn’t have left him alone in the first place. I should have been his mirror as I always am, that’s all.

… Ah.

No use dwelling on the past now. I’m not in a hurry. I can see him as much as I want when we’re home.  
I turn my attention to the clothes I brought in. As soon as I put it down the blue shirt seemed somewhat of a waste to me, though I’m still taken with the jacket. I’ll try it on. This is a place that sells clothes, in the end, so I don’t think it’s appropriate to just sit around listening to _other_ people try things on.  
And the conclusion? It _does_ suit me, but it’s not quite within my budget at present, and besides I can’t afford to buy anything at the moment regardless of how much money I have. In Guy’s perspective, I’m someone who’s been at home all day. Wouldn’t want him to see this or any receipts lying around, now, would I?

I’ll get it later, I tell myself. Later. All for the better, if there’s one in my size left over until the sales.

…

Ah. There he goes; I just heard the curtain rustle next door.  
The moment I hear his footsteps I hold my breath, not moving the slightest inch until there is absolute silence. He chose the very moment I was trying to take off this jacket to leave, so it’s an awkward few seconds standing there. I have no idea how successful he was with his lot today, maybe he’s going to leave without buying anything - but either way, now I need to be careful with my timing.

I got it wrong the first time. Let’s hope I won’t mess up this time around.

I have to leave the store after he does, but I also have to return home before he comes back. If I find him at home, having beat me by a matter of minutes, I suppose I can make up something about running out of a dinner ingredient and having run to the store, but this isn’t going to work if we encounter each other near here or at the Métro. Best to avoid that scenario altogether.

Thankfully, I have experience on my side. Not the first time I’ve done this, by a far margin.  
I can’t miss a golden opportunity like this, can I?

I leave my clothes behind, not wanting them to get mixed up with Guy’s. Then I open the curtain of my own cubicle and hastily move into his; the moment I do so I’m faced with a similar mirror, another bench, empty clothes hangers-

“…?”

\- and a dark navy shirt hanging from the side. It’s been hung up, lopsided, with all of its buttons open.  
Not like Guy to be so impatient with anything.

I’m sorry. I suppose you didn’t make the cut.  
It’s not you, it’s my boyfriend. High standards, and all. Nothing to do with you.

I reach out and touch the sleeve. Definitely one of Guy’s attempts; a shadow of his warmth has lingered, and I like the feel of the material. While it’s not my style, I could probably give this one a go, myself. I draw the curtains, sit on the bench, take off my polo shirt - for some reason my fingers are trembling - and fold it up before reaching for the clothes hanger and scrutinizing the shirt.

What about it didn’t appeal to Guy, I wonder? He’d have looked lovely in this.  
Maybe the colour didn’t suit him, or maybe the size was off slightly (not a complaint on this end). Or the style. Or just him not feeling up to it, though I can’t say that he’s ever been the capricious type.

Ah, well. He had his reasons, let’s leave it at there.  
I button the shirt up fully, glance at myself a couple of times, then sit down again. Just as I thought. It doesn’t suit me, but then again, Guy wore it and it smells of him; what’s _not_ to like? I can’t help but wonder how much time he spent on wearing this shirt, when he couldn’t have been in here for more than ten minutes at most. Maybe two or three minutes at best. But on the other hand, considering that he cast it aside like this, he might well have taken it off immediately after deciding that it wasn’t to his taste.

I don’t need to know all this, true, but he’s the man I love. It’s entirely normal that I’m at least curious.

Isn’t it?

…

I can’t say I like the idea of people being around him all the time. But in a way I suppose that’s a compliment on its own. Whoever’s with Guy would do as I do, myself - admire him constantly, keep him nearby and safe. I don’t think that’s too weird, and as long as I don’t get caught I’ll be okay.

I just need to be careful, is all…

…

He’s _important_ to me. He’s the love of my life.  
I… I want this to work out, that’s all. I want to stay by his side for a good long time…

…

It feels like Guy’s here with me, holding me tight.  
If this isn’t heaven, what is?

Guy-Manuel, my love!  
Guy, are you watching me? Can you feel me?  
I’m sitting where you were only minutes ago. I’m wearing the exact shirt that hugged around your body.  
I expect your body will be the same today. Warm, slippery and - mmh - intensely fragrant, if I say so myself. You know this shirt? Your cologne’s quite strong on it, the one I bought you last Christmas. Back then I was certain enough that I’d bought the right kind for you, and seeing that you put it on today… ah, Guy, it’s nothing less than bliss, knowing that you approve of my taste.

…

What time is it now?

Four forty-three. About time I left. Guy must have left by now, and I should head home before he gets back, lest he become suspicious. I stand up, take off the shirt, and replace it on the wire hanger as neatly as possible. Someone will come to collect it soon enough, and it’ll be returned to the displays alongside countless others like it. No doubt about that at all.

I’m off now, I murmur as I touch over its sleeve for the last time.  
Clothes are meant to be worn, so you’ll be taken back and put on display again for that very purpose. You have your place and I have mine; you’ll find your master soon, I’m sure. Good luck, though I can’t sympathize too much with your situation at present.

I’m already a chosen one, unlike you.

…

No hard feelings.

—–

“I’m home-”

It is exactly half five, on the dot, when he steps through that door.

Guy will never know just how eagerly I have been waiting for those words, even though we’ve only been apart for a short time.  
No, he _mustn’t_ know, until any circumstances. I went straight home after I left the store, all the while intending to relax _completely_ and brew a coffee while I waited for him, but - heh, what can I say? It didn’t work out exactly like that, but then not many things in life do. I look into his eyes and smile, and when I speak my words come out as gently as I intended it, at least on the surface-

_“Bienvenue, mon prince!”_

\- though things are a little different on the inside. I can barely stand to look at his smile and his wind-ruffled hair, he’s so _beautiful._  
So you’re back. I missed you so much, my love, hold me, please…!

“A prince, huh? I like that.”

That’s good. It’d be awkward if you didn’t, seeing as it’s the truth.

“What was it like outside, did you have a good time?”  
“Mm, _oui._ It’s turned a little cold, though, I think it’s going to rain. It was nice, apart from that. Have you eaten?”  
“ _Non,_ I wanted to wait for you before I started dinner. I didn’t know what you wanted to eat.”  
“Ah, I see. Then I suppose we better get ready, I could make us a sandwich to tide us over in the meanwhile…”  
“I’m in no hurry! Put those bags down first - new clothes, I take it?”

 _Yes, you guessed right,_ he says, his smile as bright as the sun. The setting sun paints the side of his face a light golden.

“You aren’t too hungry then, Thomas?”  
“It can wait. It’s more important that my lover gets cared for first.”  
“Ha! You can care for me with an extra helping of meatballs at dinner later.”  
“What, you’re going to have _me_ do all the cooking? And after I even had the grace to _wait_ for you!”

I’m joking, of course. I had the uncanny sense that he’d want meatballs or some kind of pasta for dinner today, almost from the moment I woke up in the morning; everything’s in the fridge and ready to go whenever he wants it. It won’t take thirty minutes. So there just isn’t much need for either of us to hurry.  
We bicker as we head to the bedroom together, me sitting down on the wide bed as he lowers his bags to the ground. We’ve gone through this ritual many times already. Our bodies are used to it.

“Show me what you bought then, will you?”

For me, it’s just a matter of pretending that I didn’t see him earlier, so that I can appreciate him better.

What’s this ritual all about?  
I’ll get to that in a bit. I can’t explain it as well as the real thing, anyway.

“Oh, I see, _someone’s_ eager to see me strip. Never mind that I just got here.”  
“ _Mais pourquoi pas?_ Would you rather leave the stripping to someone else?”  
“Give me a break, already!”

But his embarrassment lasts only a second. The moment his laughter dies down, he stands up and takes off his shirt and trousers like nothing happened. Those are draped around the back of a chair; out of the shopping bag emblazoned with the store’s logo comes a new pair of jeans, a winter coat, and-

“You bought a new belt?”  
“I liked the colour. And I could use a new one, it’s been a while.”  
“It’d be an easy one to unbuckle, I hope. Whether from the back or front.”  
“Sure, providing that it ever needs unbuckling in the first place.”

 _I’d like to see you try,_ is the message engraved upon his playful smile. _But either way, you’ll wait after I’m done putting those on._  
A challenge I can get behind any day, all day. It’s not even me who’s showing off and already I’m excited.

Loving him wasn’t a choice I could choose to make.  
I met him when we could scarcely understand friendship, let alone _love_ in the way we currently share; since then I have followed him, and over time it became second nature to me that we were always by each other’s side. It wasn’t long before I couldn’t endure the thought of being apart from him, even for a little while. This wasn’t a problem when we were little - kids usually don’t stray far from home, anyway - but honestly, we grew up far too fast, and the time soon came when we had to think about what we’d do after school. The thought of us in university or at work, apart for maybe weeks or months at a time - perhaps even _forever_ , as we grew up and took a different course in life - was such a horrific one that I suffered from it for a long time.

You can’t blame me. Interpersonal relations are strange and frightening things for even the best of people. Back then, despite staunchly refusing to believe that two people could just be torn apart like that, I was terrified of that exact thing happening to the two of us. I seem to remember that he shouldered this possibility better than I did; on more than one occasion I mistook this for him not wanting me anymore, and cried because of it. He was, truly, too calm-minded for me even then.

I bet I looked quite the sight back then.  
Not that I would want Guy to remember any of that time.

I have loved Guy ever since I was a hasty twelve-year old boy, that much is true. (But I don’t think I wanted to take him to bed until we were both past twenty.)  
We’ve dated other people before, and it took a long time for us to both confess - but from my point of view, our relationship is a dream come true. Of course there are a few regrets, like not being able to awkwardly make our way through our respective first times or not having confessed earlier. But we’re only people; what _else_ could we do in the face of this vast universe and the plans it had for us? I believed for the longest time that we’d end up together, and thankfully, we actually have. All that’s left for us is to live long and happily together.

If I spilled out those thoughts in front of him, how would he react? Maybe he’d be pleased, but not without some awkwardness. These are words that one day will need saying, but I’ll save them for when I can express them properly.  
_Très joli_ , I murmur in a barely-audible voice, lost in those thoughts and the sight of his reflection.

“Thomas? How do I look?”  
“… Oh, uh. Really good so far.”

… But to express myself properly, I ought to practice doing so, shouldn’t I?  
I know full well that Guy doesn’t just look 'really good’.

I love:  
His blue eyes.  
His low, refined voice.  
His slim fingers, when they curl around a cigarette.  
His laughter, and the way he looks when he sleeps.  
His heart and his soft lips - ah, yes, I love them all.  
So, as you can see, me calling him _my prince_ is not at all an exaggeration.

“Help me do up my coat, please?”

Sure, sure. Of course I will.

The buttons on this coat are nice. Genuine mother-of-pearl polished to a high sheen, instead of the expected plastic. Not a single stitch out of place. It’s a good quality coat, as many coats that are plain at first sight tend to be.

No, he doesn’t _need_ help with the buttons. But it’s rare that he pleads with me in so adorable a manner; can you blame me for giving in? I get my own reward out of it, too. Whenever I see him so cheerful like this, I always feel as if something good is about to happen, and often enough it actually _does_.  
(More accurately, I feel as if something good will be _allowed_ to happen, not that some kind of fortune’s coming our way.)

“I’m done. What do you think?”

I raise my head on command and observe this creation, none but God’s own, right in front of me.

My first thought is that this outfit isn’t one that stands out. If you passed him on the street, you’d give him naught but a single glance.  
But it’s different if you’re someone like me, who’d always be watching from close by. His jeans show off the lean curve of his legs without being too tight and his coat’s a beautifully warm-and-muted red; it’s a shame that he doesn’t have a scarf on at present (his neck looks rather exposed, what with it being so pale), but his long hair makes up for it, falling to a length beneath the top of his collar.

He looks like a student to me. Not the boyish kind. Like a fashionable, fresh young man at a university somewhere.  
Beautiful clothes on a beautiful model.

“… They look wonderful. You look so nice, Guy.”  
He smiles. “Heh. _Merci._ ”  
“I’d have gone with you if I’d known how beautiful you’d be.”

(It’s not a lie. I _did_ thoroughly fail to see him after being less than a metre away from him.)

“We’ll go together next time. Buy you some clothes, too. I know that green shirt looks good on you, but haven’t you been wearing it for a while?”  
“You’re one to talk. You steal it off me sometimes-”  
“Ah, but I only do that for the sake of you changing your clothes for once, you should be _grateful_ -”

If this wasn’t Guy speaking I would be annoyed. But as far as truth goes, right now I’m so enamoured with him that I can barely stand it.  
My playful embrace is met with a delightful round of protests, which I quell with kisses to the cheeks and mouth. His laughter fills the entire room while I lean down and inhale his scent. The cologne from earlier, detergent, his own unique odour that I can’t rightly describe… all those things mingle together to calm my previously-tumultuous mind.

“…”  
“…”

I suspect that things aren’t too different on his end.

Our hearts are pounding. The smiles disappear from our faces, replaced with a different kind of understanding. Something else is taking its course.  
I lower my gaze to the coat that I so carefully helped to button up, and one by one, I slowly loosen them all again.

“Thom…”

…

“… It’s about time… we initiated those into your collection, isn’t it?”

His cheeks redden at those words; so prettily, too, that I can’t resist kissing them.  
There’s a kind of _initiation rite_ we go through every time he buys clothes for himself; first he comes home with them, then I look him over as he puts them on, helping some along the way. Save for when he tries them on in the changing rooms (whether in my presence or not), they aren’t allowed to adorn his body in public until I’ve given my approval in person.

I take his coat off, drape it across the coat hanger and push it aside. Though he’s not quite naked, he’s good as defenceless now; I can see it from the way he shivers in anticipation.

“Look at you,” his jeans make a quiet, whispery noise as they’re unzipped. “it hasn’t been three hours since you bought this, and you’re already leaking through it…”

“T-Thomas… ahh-”

It’s hard to resist a smile, hearing that. I reach out and brush my hand against the small damp spot forming against his briefs.

“It’s a good thing, Guy, isn’t it…? No one but me knows just how _lewd_ you are.”

Know something? I love the way his cock twitches with the lightest touch of my hand. Absolutely _love_ it. It’s exactly as sensitive as its owner; I just couldn’t do without them both, you know?  
Guy isn’t protesting in any way so far - so I feel comfortable carrying on.

“Lie down, _chéri_ … I’ll help.”

His belt is unbuckled and pushed off, along with his jeans. All beautiful clothes, as I’ve said, but they’re not yet familiarized to Guy’s body.  
Clothes need maintenance. When you’re done wearing it, you need to know how fold it, how to wash it or where to keep it when it’s not being worn; I can’t think of how many clothes are ruined every day around the world by such carelessness. So, you see, when I speak of _initiation_ -

If you’ve helped someone put on an item of clothing, isn’t it polite to help them out of it, too?  
Every time a new item of clothing enters the house, it’s paramount that the buyer be reminded of just what it takes to keep said clothes looking nice and new. It’s what a good partner does. I merely chose the way that involves the joining of bodies, that’s all.

His nakedness greets me the moment the last article of clothing is flung from his body; that, and his scent, a fragrance so exquisite that no cologne can rival it. When Guy wears my clothes, or when I wear his, our scents mingle in a way strikingly reminiscent of the way we share our bodies; forget wearing anything at all, we provide good enough cover for each other. We accentuate each other’s bodies while deftly concealing any flaws that there might be. We’re not like the average couple on the street is what I’m saying, we moved past the hand-holding and kissing phase a long time ago. When I lick a trail up his thighs, past his erection, stomach, and all the way to his throat, he moans and twitches pleasantly beneath me.

He’s not normally as desirous as I am, but once I get him going, he feels absolutely everything with concentrated intensity.  
Violently, almost, so much that even I am often surprised.

“… I don’t think you understand just how beautiful you are.”  
“What’re you talking about now, that’s _ridiculous_ …”  
“It’s not ridiculous,” I kiss his forehead and rub my cheek against his own, feeling his heat soaking into my skin. I love moments like these. “I can’t get enough of you, you know that? I almost want you to stay in with me and not ever go out again.”

He smirks when I say that, like he always does. Doubtless he thinks I’m joking, even though I’m not.  
Heh.

His nipples are small and pink, just right for me to taste. I waste no time in doing so, teasing the nub as gently as I can with the very tip of my tongue, so slight that he can barely feel it; only when he settles down with a moan do I close my lips around his nipple, suckling softly just the way he likes it.  
It’s nice and hard beneath my tongue. Sweet. You’re so beautiful, Guy - are you even sure that this is allowed? Because I feel like this flat out isn’t _fair_. All this makes me feel a little mean-spirited (just a little) and I nip at it, fully expecting him to chastise me.

All he does is to shiver, letting out a small adorable noise. Guess I’m forgiven this once.

It’s a real relief to me, knowing that this is a sensitive spot for all sexes.  
Sure, everyone perceives their own erogenous zones a little differently - but what matters to me is that _Guy’s_ very sensitive there. I love to tease the tips of his nipples when I’m helping him with a shirt or jacket, brushing my thumb nonchalantly against the fabric as if I didn’t notice the way he tensed. With that thought I finally lift my mouth from his chest, only to give in and kiss him there again.

I told you. It’s not fair.  
What am I going to do with you, my love?

“… Huh?”

And then suddenly, without a single word - his arms are around me, pressing me to his chest.  
Guy’s usually performing that role because of our respective heights; I like being hugged like that as well, though, so I can’t complain. I don’t know if anyone can sincerely despise a loving embrace. I bury my face in his chest and breathe in deeply, feeling his fingers tangle themselves in my hair, stroking me warmly even if I can’t see him doing so.

…

Mmm… this feels nice.  
I am a little surprised, I’ll admit. I’ve never thought of Guy as deeply affectionate, nor have I considered him to be so actively comforting. I am honest about those things as his lover. He’s by no means cold or overly formal, no - he’s not a complicated person - but when it comes to caresses, it’s usually me doing the work. He doesn’t do it to me often, and even then, seldom this gently. Could something have happened to change his mood like this?

“… Is… something the matter?”

(It doesn’t seem like it, but…)

“Mm, _non_ … just…”

Close my eyes. Lean into his hand, basking in his warmth.

“… you just make me feel _exceptionally_ affectionate, somehow.”

Guy smiles quietly after saying that. Normally in a situation like this - laid bare in front of me, completely defenceless - it ought to be a daring sort of smile that he has, but not this time. No, it’s a softer sort, this one. It’s such a calm and soothing smile that you wouldn’t believe it; a single glance, and suddenly I’m a boy again, my heart racing hard in my chest and a warmth rising in my cheeks…

Yes, that’s an _affectionate_ smile, all right.

“I do? Really?”  
“I feel like I’m holding a baby, almost? Maybe it’s instinct.”  
“… N-now see here-”

… All right, well, I take that back.  
It’s a little too early to make that sort of comparison, no?

“Then again, I don’t know much about _male_ instincts, so…”

He murmurs such to himself for a moment, before he looks up and smiles again. It’s different this time.  
That’s right, Guy - that’s the you I’ve been waiting for.

It’s not a friendly world for quiet people. They get branded with all sorts of labels, 'introverted’ on one end and all the way up to 'anti-social’ or 'unpleasant’ on the other. Like it or not, our society runs on communication, and how good you’re at it tends to determine the success or the failure of one’s life; I get it, I guess, why people think that way. But quiet people aren’t really like that. I’d say the wiser you are, and the kinder you are, the less likely you are to be talkative; it’s only the sheer size of this world and the variety of people within it that make it complicated to discern them. The kind and wise are everywhere and all of them will insist on a different way of conversation. Silence is golden for some people; others prefer to react with a light chuckle, or a sigh, or some kind of exclamation in place of words, and so on.  
My boyfriend is one of those people. I have had to learn this with haste.

Guy’s preferred way of communication is the smile. By simply raising a corner of his mouth he can provide answers to two hundred questions, or express a hundred different opinions and emotions of his own. I have long since theorized that it is his face that lends his smile such a mysterious power; like I said before, when I fell in love with him, there was not a single word of protest or struggle from my end, though I can think of plenty of times when that would have been warranted. The force of my own feelings _alarmed_ me so, and sometimes they still do, though I don’t complain about the life we have together now by any means. I have spent such a long time by his side that his habits and appearance have become ingrained in me. Even when I’m not with him, I miss him and adore him endlessly; this can only mean that something about him is affecting me, constantly, on all levels of my consciousness. Something ingrained, as I have said.

I don’t want to give the impression that I judged my lover purely on appearance alone. But I honestly believe that his face made me this way. His may not be the most perfect face and he’s definitely not the most handsome person on earth, but to me, he is nonpareil. Every expression from him is exquisite, but whenever he laughs or gives me that small, mysterious smile - then I find myself surrounded by what I can only describe as a courtly, nigh-despairing passion. Eroticism doesn’t always have anything to do with it. I understand it only as the sense that I’m guaranteed to experience a sweet, new sort of surprise every time I see him. We know each other so well, yet I can never think of him as someone to get used to, physically or mentally.

How can I hope to completely understand this man?

I raise my head from his chest and sit up properly, looking into his eyes. Guy doesn’t like being stared at usually, but just this once, he’s looking straight back at me without refusal. His reddened cheeks, his dark pupils set against a backdrop of blue, the softly-parted lips-

“… Guillaume?”

\- and that _name_ , that blessed name, which eternally fills me with longing.

_“… Oui?”_

Let’s think about children another time.  
Later, I say. Right now, what I’d like to do is…

“… Sex?”

… to play a game. The warm, loving, and slightly-embarrassing _adult_ kind.  
I don’t think I can think about such serious matters until I’m done wanting to play.  
( _Mon dieu!_ I really hope this kind of thing isn’t going to be difficult to explain later on.)

When he nods his head, I take that as a signal to take off my own clothes. This is done haphazardly with me getting up from the bed and tossing each item of clothing away as I pull them off my body - unlike Guy, I’m not exactly one to pay close attention to them. It’s probably not the most charming habit on my end from his perspective, though he’s never once told me off for it. Once I’m naked, I lie back down and cling to him, not wanting to waste even a single second.  
How many times would I need to play like a grown-up before I can act like one?

Our lips meet with desperation. The soft bed creaks just a little beneath us.

“Mm… hh…”

This kiss is different to the ones that came before, in that it heralds a great deal of sex.

“… _Chéri_ …”

Starting now.

I close my eyes and enjoy our kiss for what it is.  
The heat of his breath against my cheek as he lies beneath me.  
The tip of his tongue as it traces the curve of my lower lip.  
Not leaving out, of course, the rain beginning to fall outside.

I should very much like to hold him more comfortably, so I touch his knee in a silent request for him to move over. His member brushes against my thigh as he does so; it feels nice there, warm and kind of ticklish.  
When I touch it, he shivers and moans a little. That’s right, Guy. Be as loud and as lewd as you want.

“… Thomas, hah… can - can I… with my mouth? Please?”

… Huh? Really? You don’t offer that often.  
Not that I’m complaining; I welcome almost any kind of caress imaginable.

Of course, whatever that might be, manners are manners. If it’s oral, you don’t press your partner’s head down and you certainly don’t force yourself into their mouth, that’s rude at best.  
Extra points are awarded, on the other hand, for being mindful of what your partner likes. Honestly speaking, I wouldn’t call Guy particularly sensitive to other people’s feelings - but despite that, he is very considerate of my needs. I’m a lucky man.

“No, not like that. You be comfortable, too - _oui,_ just like that. Good boy.”

From what I’ve heard, some people only command oral sex for the sake of seeing their partner submit, though I’m not sure if it’s ever necessary to assert one’s dominance in such a manner. It’s not why _I_ do it, anyway; I want the maximum pleasure for all involved, so I enjoy reclining or lying down while I receive. This position comes with many advantages: it’s more comfortable for us, I can stroke his hair as lazily as I want, and if I raise my head just a little I can see perfectly how my cock fills his mouth. It’s a better feeling than what I get making him kneel down for anything.

I don’t know how to describe it, really - it’s a kind of happiness, I think?  
It’s the exact feeling I get when I’m sucking him and I see how much he’s enjoying it.

_“… D'accord?”_

“Sure… mm, so _good._..”

All I can say is that I’m glad that he likes giving and receiving equally. I have no intention of forcing him.

Maybe that’s exactly what gets me off. That none of this is _forced_.  
It’s all on _his_ terms; he wants to do this for me. He wants me, full stop, now and for always. Being wanted is the best feeling in the world.

I don’t ask him often for it, but Guy seems to like deep-throating me now and then. He’s told me once that he only likes to give it, too, something about feeling more uncomfortable than anything when it comes to receiving. Apparently he’s felt that way since the beginning. I’ve wondered before whether this was because his previous lovers didn’t do it right - though I’ll stop the speculation there. (I don’t like thinking about those people, because then I get jealous and then I feel bad.) As much as he likes focusing on my pleasure, it may be the case that he gets a sense of self-challenge out of it. He moves to the side before taking my length deep into his mouth, finding that easier than staying between my legs, though all I can focus on right now is just how hard he is down there. He’s so excited, I can see it; why, he’s leaking from the tip already, the clear sticky fluid soaking into the sheets.

And oh - oh, God, the _scent_ of him…

You want it too, don’t you?  
I’m sorry, my darling. I’ve been selfish. It’s your turn to be loved.

_“Arrête…”_

That word is all it takes for him to stop and lie back down next to me, cuddling up to my chest. To stop my growing anxiety, I accept his embrace and hold him - once, but as tightly as I can manage - for a very long time. His body’s just as heated as mine, and slightly damp with sweat; I stroke his hair and kiss his forehead, thankful that he understands my gratitude without me saying it out loud.

Grey skies with wisps of rain: the default state of Montmartre during late October.

“…”

“…”

The rain drowns out all other sounds surrounding us; the sound of raindrops beating against the window, interspersed with our rapid breathing, is all that I can hear. We lie together for a while, then sit up at the same time, gazing at each other in that tranquil silence.

Our souls are as one. Our bodies are two who once weren’t.  
Across that border where all language loses its meaning, we gladly understand each other through expressions and gesture.

… Let us talk a little more about his face.

Guy looks young for his age.  
When we were younger I thought he looked almost needlessly mature, but thinking about it now, it was only that he settled into his adult appearance a little sooner than others. His looks have changed very little from when he was nineteen or twenty years old; all that adds or takes away age from his face is the presence of facial hair, or maybe a hat. Even when we’re around forty and edging into middle age, I have a feeling that he’d stay relatively young-looking.

It’s kind of sad in a way. We’ve got a long way to go, the two of us, before we’re forty, and of course it’s natural that tastes change with time. But it’d be really awkward, to say the least, if things really happened the way I’ve just said. It’s just going to be _weird_ when we both get to that point and I _still_ feel like I’m seducing a student, fresh out of university even, whenever I’m licking all over his body or pushing my fingers inside him like I’m doing now. And he’s older than me, just to hammer home the irony.

He’s hot and tight around me. I always make sure to slick him up properly beforehand. (Manners.)  
He doesn’t really make a sound; he just curls into my chest, blushing a little and breathing shallowly as he feels my fingers sliding inside his body. It’s really cute to watch, but to think of him, exactly like this even in our middle age…

Though, in the end, he will always be the older one. I have no reason to refuse him.

There’s a single condom left in the drawer. I tear that one open and put it on myself, passing the bottle of lube to him in the meanwhile; he understands immediately, and pours a little of the liquid onto his palm before helping to slick me up with both hands. He’s shy, I can tell - he’s crafted a kind of expressionless mask upon himself to hide it, but I can tell how excited he is from the faint tremor of his fingers, and the curve of his mouth.

I know that feeling. I really do.

It doesn’t matter how many times you’ve shared your body with someone, or how good it makes you feel; for a lot of people, exposing themselves to another person just isn’t that easy, full stop. Maybe it makes me a hypocrite to say so, but while I think this attitude is a darn shame, I also like it when Guy’s the one hesitating. All I can say in defence of myself is that his ecstasy is best expressed when drawn out slowly, little by little, over time. What else can I say?

I can gather much more from an expressionless face, anyhow, if it’s his.  
Guy’s beauty is like that of a mask, smooth and snowy and utterly devoid of blemish; not a painted one, but one set firmly in its perfection. He’s often told that he’s somewhat cold-looking, and I don’t think this is too far off the mark, though I certainly don’t mean it in an unpleasant way. His pupils focus on nothing or else thin air, gazing ahead as if in pietal sorrow; his eyes are clear and tranquil like the depth of a blue pool; save for when he’s been drinking or when he’s embarrassed, his face is often pale. I could never call it a strong-featured face, but it is one that is so seldom changing. It is because of this unchanging face that he can express his soul in the purest sense of the word, with no need to speak of flaws or forte. Right now he is young, it’s the appropriate time for him to show off a surface beauty; when he’s older, I imagine he will seek an immortal _mental essence_ in its stead, and right when he would have matured enough to display his inner excellence.

I look forward to it, I really do. I don’t know when all of this will be, but I plan on sticking around beyond that point.

This is why I concern myself so with the clothes that he wears, and why I am so insistent on this ritual of intimacy. He shows me a different self every day, despite his unchanging face and body, from merely changing his clothes. You might not think that was particularly special - if you change your clothes, you’re going to look different, no matter who you are - but I tell you, it is rare to meet someone who can effortlessly exert that kind of influence on other people. His sizes haven’t changed a bit in the past three or four years; he dresses me in his clothes, and often wears my own. Depending on what he wears, he can present himself as a different kind of person altogether - or he can perfectly recreate the appearance of that boy whom I first fell in love with, such a long time ago.

Through my eyes, Guy can reinvent each and every day of our life.

And what do we call the ones who can conjure infinite variations from within a single frame?  
_Designers._ Every time I watch Guy go through the daily ritual of selecting and putting on his clothes, I feel as if the very spirit of Saint-Laurent has come to reside in him, reflected in his every gesture. If that’s not magic, I don’t know what is.

“I’m ready, now… put it in me.”  
“Mm.”

But clothes wear out eventually, or go out of fashion. This is inevitable. And no matter what the recent trends are, Guy’s bound to dislike some of it; fashion isn’t meant to be relied upon. So for those times I need to remind him of something that is _very_ important, and I must do so using any means necessary:

“You can hold on as tightly as you want, okay?”

 _I’m_ the only thing he may wear with no regard to time or style.  
I demand that he work his daily magic through my eyes, that _I_ be his one and only love.  
For all of the above, he is mine, after all.

“Oh…”

He’s so warm inside…  
… so soft, so tight as he closes around me.

“Hah, nnh - Tho… mas…”

Ahh… God, he’s so hot….  
… I feel like… I’m about to melt…

I will never tire of how he pants and moans beneath me, holding onto me for dear life. A million times wouldn’t be enough.  
When I drop a kiss on the corner of his mouth, he mewls a little like a kitten before taking in a ragged breath.

This is nearly unbearable. I wonder if I can move now.

“O-ohh, fuck… that _hurts,_ Jesus _Christ,_ Thom, go slowly…!”

It hurts? Well, that won’t do.  
Here… I’ll slow down a bit, let me…

“Are you all right?”  
“… Yeah, I’m fine now.”  
“Good. I’ll start again, okay?”

Best to go slow and steady at the start. It feels nice enough until our bodies relax, and besides, I’m not trying to hurt Guy. Teasing him is one thing, actually causing him pain is quite another - and I’m eager to avoid the latter. All I want from him is for him to want me in return, and to confirm that it is I who can help him reach such heights of pleasure - I want him to look at me as he climaxes. That’s all.

It all adds up to a lot of patience from my end, but if it’s for Guy’s sake…

“Thomas - please! Fuck me harder, _please_ , I need you-”

I see this often, but it’s always fascinating, nevertheless. How can such a sweet, lewd moan come from such a body as his?  
He might be embarrassed about begging, but none of it is forced; it’s a fully liberated, pure sort of appeal. Guy has excellent relative pitch, I swear even his cries are in tune - every time I hear him moan or beg, it’s like I’m listening to actual music. This even extends to work, in a way. When we’re in the studio, or when we work as DJs together, Guy often produces a song that sounds as if sex has been melded onto every note of it.

Days like those, it’s like winning the lottery. I make sure to take him to bed as soon as possible when those times come around; it’s hard for me to bear it otherwise.  
I spread his legs wider and lace my fingers in his as I move harder, deeper, rougher.

“I, I can feel you, Thom… down there… your pulse-”  
“Really? I want to hear more… give me the details, Guy, like how deep I’m inside you right now, or how hard your nipples are…”  
“S-shut up! Pervert…”

Pervert, eh? I’d like to object to that, I should think!  
It’s time for a punishment.

I like men with nicely-shaped ears. I was contemplating the shape of people’s ears before I even knew what sex was, so that quirk and I go back a long way. There isn’t quite time for me to describe what exactly makes a pretty ear and what doesn’t, but take it from me that both Guy and I have wonderful ears. Maybe it’s because we’re musicians.  
This is immensely convenient for me, because…

“All right, I’ll acknowledge that I’m a pervert… if you can endure this for two minutes.”

… Guy’s ear is a particularly powerful erogenous zone for him.

“Ah, nngh…! S-stop it, hhh… _stop!_ ”

That’s what he gets for being naughty.

I ignore his protests and nibble on his earlobe, tracing its outline with the tip of my tongue; he especially likes it when I edge my teeth against the skin. I could be whispering sweet nothings in his ear or breathing into it, that works too - but those are for more _romantic_ occasions. This, _this_ is raw sensation.

“Someone’s sensitive.”  
“All right… all right, I surrender!”  
“ _Already?_ That doesn’t seem like what a prince would do. Not dignified enough.”  
“… You always call me that…”

Ah, yes.  
I’ve never explained to him exactly _why_ I call him a prince. It’s something I’d like him to take seriously, so I pull my lips away from his ear and go back to holding him properly, moving my hips deeply and as slowly as I can. It takes less than a minute for his breathing to slow, at which point I feel it appropriate to respond.

“It’s a little too late for me to be a _prince_ , anyway.”  
“Hey, I’m not advocating bringing back the ruling classes. I mean like the princes in fairytales, you know? The handsome ones with a kind heart, lots of servants and what have you…”  
“Thomas Bangalter, my _servant?_ Ha… come off it!”

… I really _could_ be one for you, if you wanted. I mean it.  
I’m not, ahem, going to offer outright, of course. You’ll have to figure it out yourself.

I’m sorry. I just like teasing you a bit more, at least right now.

“You’re not the type to be so easily satisfied.”

True. You know me so well, my love.  
I smile, then lean down to whisper in his ear:

…

…

“Want to see just what it takes to satisfy me?”

…

…

“… Yeah…”

…

…

Here I go, then.

“… Ah, ah! _Ahh_! Hah… ah!”

I’m thrusting in far harder than before, lifting his legs to spread them as wide as they can go.  
Every time I see myself buried deep within him, I’m so turned on I don’t even know what to say.

“So hot… so hot, Thomas, oh _God,_ oh…!”

I want to see you ruined with pleasure.

“… Guy?”

I want to suck you, lick you, toy with your body as much as I desire.  
I want to see you come for me and me alone. I want to steal you away to where no one but I can see you losing control like this.  
That’s right, Guy-Manuel; I can hide you better than any of the clothes in your wardrobe ever could.

“Say you love me.”

So hold me. Please tell me what I want to hear.  
I don’t often ask such favours of you. Let me hear it, Guy, please?

“I love you, Thomas, _I love you_ … ungh, so much…! More, I want more-”

I can’t help but close my eyes in utter bliss.  
Depending on the situation, it’s not that rare that I’m brought to climax by words as sweet as those alone. I think it’s a lovely concept too in its own right, as long as you don’t lose control too early - isn’t it beautiful, the idea of being so deeply in love with someone that a mere _three words_ can trigger such ecstasy in you?

For that matter, I think I’m going to last a while, but I’m still plenty giddy with delight.  
Is it selfish of me to want more love out of him?

“You’re mine. You know that, right?”  
“… Of course, I…”  
“I want you to say it out loud so I can hear it.”

It’s a demand, not a choice.

I stop, and begin to lift my hips slowly - agonizingly so - to withdraw from his body.  
His desperate cry in response is soon muffled with a harsh kiss from my part.

“Say it…”

I just want him to be honest with me, no matter how much torment it might take.  
All this, despite me knowing that the most honest of words wouldn’t be enough…

“I’m yours, and yours only, Thomas… for always!”

… despite knowing that he will never be _entirely_ mine.

I’m not forcing him to lie, I have to make that clear before misunderstandings arise. This isn’t an open relationship and I didn’t steal him from anyone else. But it’s true: while he _is_ mine, Guy will never let himself be bound strictly to my life’s routine. I could long for him until the second I die, but I will never know _everything_ about him, and deep inside my mind I’m actually afraid of that possibility. What is love, after all, without _obstacles_ \- whether it be an uncertain future, unpredictable personalities, or a partner whom you can never learn enough about? Too much familiarity gives birth to boredom, and boredom is one of the most profound curses that can be inflicted upon love.

You ought not to try and know too much, too fast, about your partner at once. Nothing good will come out of it.

I’m forever in awe of Guy, and I’m always learning something new from him, but -  
\- suppose, just suppose, that one day he won’t find me interesting any more?

… No.

No, I can’t let that happen!

“Nngh, too - too hard…! Thom… _too hard!_ Be gentle, please…!”

Is it a male instinct to cover up fear with force?

Guy must never be hurt.  
It doesn’t matter how desperate I am or how much I want to tease, this is a rule to be kept under all circumstances; the moment he pleads with me to slow down, I do so, careful to handle him in the most gentle manner possible. But there’s nothing I can do about this need to have him, to own him completely. My breathing has turned harsh and my teeth are clenched tight, almost independent of my will.  
We’re going to be happy, aren’t we? We’re going to be together until the very end, right?  
It has to work out that way, I don’t know what I’d do if someone stole away what was mine.

What does _Guy_ feel about it, though?

… What is he feeling like right now, full stop?

Every thrust and movement from my end is catered to his wants, so I have a vague idea. But unless I could _become_ him in the flesh, somehow, I’ll never know exactly what he feels about anything. All I can do is to think of the countless memories I have of him making love to me, and try to take it from there.

“Don’t stop, Thom, don’t… oh…”

I think he’s close.  
He needs to come first. God forbid I lose myself in this pleasure _now._  
Close your eyes, Thomas. Close your eyes and take yourself back; you saved those memories precisely for times like this.

I think back to the first time Guy pressed himself inside me, deeper than what I’d been prepared for.  
It wasn’t as if I was inexperienced. But the moment I perceived just how thoroughly I had given myself to him, I opened my eyes to be greeted with a blurred ceiling and the worried look in his eyes. And in that moment, oh - I loved him more than I had thought myself capable of loving anyone, brought to tears from the not-unfamiliar sensation of simply being joined with someone else. I can still feel it now, almost, the heat of his cock pushing in and out of my body, his lips pressing endless kisses upon my neck, the storm raging on outside as he murmured a soft _I love you_ into my ear…

…

… Ah, _merde…_

This is harder than I thought.  
I need to hold on…

…

“I can’t… oh, Thomas, so good… harder, faster… I’m going to….!”

Guy told me once that prior to going out with, he didn’t know that he would like sex quite this much.  
He added that he never expected me to find him so sexy, either. I like reminding him of this conversation now and then.

“It’s all right… come as much as you want, you know how I love seeing you lose control…”  
“Oh, I…! No, not like this… at l-least please let go of my legs, I can’t-”  
“No. I don’t want to.”

You’re spread out so deliciously in front of me already; where do you think _you’re_ going?  
Now… show me everything you’ve got, I don’t want to miss a single drop…

“Ah… _ahh…!_ ”

Don’t be shy, my prince, I’m here for you.

At the moment of climax Guy clings onto me, his nails digging tightly into my body as he spills everything he has to give. His essence, hot and creamy, spurts messily over his chest and stomach; there’s more of it than I thought there would be. He must have been backed up for a while. And the sheer _sight_ of him - panting and twitching all over with the force of his climax, tears in his eyes, staring down at his still-leaking cock as if he couldn’t quite believe what just happened -

“That’s it… that’s it! Come for me - ohh, _Guy!_ Come on…”

I love you, Guy - my God, don’t ever stop!  
Come for me, show me your everything. I’m going to make you so happy, I promise.  
I’ll make love to you, yes - yes, I will, until you can’t bear it any more and cry out for me, only for my sake…

“…”

And just like that, it’s over, and it’s best for me to withdraw. I need to clean him up first; it’s only polite. Everything has an order.  
I pull off the empty condom and toss it in the bin before turning around to look at my lover, lying still and dazed upon the bed. I haven’t come yet, but I wasn’t expecting to anyway, at least not for this round. I’m saving it for later, let’s call it that. I have other plans.

His boxers were cast aside a while ago. I pick it up, fold it in half, and use it to wipe him clean of sweat and come. It needs to go in the laundry anyway. He doesn’t seem to mind. I’ve been thinking all this while that I might need a break before doing anything else, but when I look down at myself, I find to my pleasant surprise that I’m still hard and ready to go at any moment.  
Guy’s lying limp and content, mere inches away from me, his scent sweet and heavy with sex.

“… Look at me, Guillaume.”

I know. This isn’t the easiest thing to ask of a man who’s lost in the throes of an intense orgasm.  
But I’ve practiced holding it in long enough. I help him sit up a little, and pull up a nearby pillow to support his body comfortably, before getting back into position.

Guy said it himself, didn’t he? I’m not one to be satisfied very easily.

I search his expression for a refusal, just in case. There’s none to be found; he doesn’t push me off as he would do if he didn’t want any more, nor does he say anything at all. A cautious press against his entrance brings forth nothing more than a small, pleased moan. Taking that as consent, I carefully lift his legs, hitch them against my hips - and slide in deep once more. He’s still pleasantly hot and slippery in there.  
That was the only condom that we had. No matter - we’ll be all right for today.

“Nnh-!”

Heh. There’s plenty more where _that_ climax came from.

Why did I stop earlier?  
Hmm. Well. Would you understand it if I said that I wanted to lie skin and skin against you?

“Mm, Guy, look at you… God, you feel so _good_ …!”

Guy… I want to come inside you. I want to give you all you can take, and more.  
Until you’re positively covered, my darling, until it starts leaking out of you…

“Thomas… w-why-”  
“It wasn’t just the jeans you bought, was it?”  
“…”

There’s the belt and the coat to tend to, still. I’m careful to keep myself firmly lodged inside him as I reach for the belt, discarded close by, and tie his wrists to the bedpost with a smile.

“… Two more to go.”

I plan to seat him atop me and focus on his torso the third time around. I want to hear the sounds he can make when I lick over his nipples, or pinch them between my fingers, or edge my teeth against them; I want to kiss and suck him so hard that he’ll bruise all over, so much that someone might think he’d been in a fight. His new coat will hide them until they fade, no problem at all. Either way, I’m not going to be satisfied until I see him sleeping next to me, curled against my chest; if he feels up to it, I also plan to love him thoroughly all over again, sometime in the middle of the night. At seeing how his hands are bound, what looks like hesitation briefly glances across his face - but whatever it was, it’s soon lost in the movement of my hips, giving way to our mutual pleasure.

Guess there’s no chance of dinner tonight. Can’t say I mind.  
I have you, after all, Guy - you, whom I will never tire of tasting and enjoying a lifetime.

“O-ohh… Thomas…!”

Just a little more -

“So beautiful, Guy… so hot… so much I can’t take it…”

\- but ultimately more, far more than anyone else ever could manage -

“Harder, I want it harder, give it to me, please!”

… that is how much I will love you, my darling, until the very end.

**Author's Note:**

> What did I tell you, it was going to sound awkward compared to my English-first writing...


End file.
